


His Own Native Shore

by mlyn



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Amputation, Drunken Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlyn/pseuds/mlyn
Summary: Set just after the end of Season 3. John tries to adjust to his new circumstances, and Flint misses nothing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this long before Season 4, after Season 3 ended. I didn't think much about posting it, but now that the series is almost over, I want to offer my contributions to the fandom. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Many thanks to Christy for feedback and editing, and for the conversations that bring me so much joy.

After the defeat of the British, the Maroons tried to celebrate as best they could with their community in shambles. John understood the sentiment; they had overcome tremendous odds and defeated a powerful enemy, and their pride was justifiable. But they were also badly hurting, with many dead and depleted stores. The funerals were held first, a mass burial deep in the forest. After that, the community celebrated their lives with singing and stories. It was a somber scene, yet somewhat hopeful. They had lived to see another day.

* * *

John remembered feeling over warm when he fell asleep, many hours after the burials and the quiet celebration. He'd thought it was the rum he'd drunk to get himself to sleep. The Maroons had top quality stuff, sweet and heady, that could make your head spin after a few sips. Surely that lingering, pervasive feeling of heat had been from the rum. 

He woke up in darkness, confused, sticky with sweat. He didn't know why he was awake. He needed to do something. He shifted. 

His lower back rippled with spasms, pain engulfing him. He gasped and stiffened, trying to suck in a breath between his cramping ribs. 

"Shh, shh, lie still." 

Flint? 

A rough hand touched his forehead and he twitched his face away, eyes straining to see through the black. He could make out a glint of light in someone's eyes—Flint, he could tell for certain now. 

"What's—" He attempted another breath, whimpering when his back warned him not to do anything so hasty. 

"Your leg is infected again. You have a high fever." Flint's voice was steady and low. John wasn't sure if it was meant to be comforting, but it wasn't. 

John moved his head about, trying to get his bearings. He was still in the Maroon camp, on a straw mat like the other men, but he felt a pillow under his head. As he shifted, he realized he could feel a pillow under his left thigh, as well. 

His thigh was throbbing, hot, a monstrous thing unto itself. He felt detached from it. He shifted his hips and bit down on a yelp as pain lanced through his body before settling back in his thigh, the muscles rippling like snakes. 

Flint touched his forehead again, then laid a cool damp cloth over it. "Try to lie still. I've sent for Doctor Howell, and we're trying to get you laudanum." 

"No—" John planted his hands on the mat and pushed himself up, whimpering through the cramps and the screaming pain of his leg. The cloth fell away and he ignored it. He faced Flint's direction in the darkness. "No laudanum." 

"Silver—" 

"He's going to take more of my leg, isn't he?" John ground out. 

"Lie back now." 

He couldn't ignore the insistence of exhaustion and pain. He sank back, shifting his shoulders, wondering if there was any possible position that might be more comfortable. Flint laid the cloth over his brow again. 

He felt chills ripple over him, a sudden wash of cold. He started trembling. "No laudanum." 

"Try to rest," Flint murmured in that same steady voice, and John knew it wasn't agreement. 

He crossed his arms over his chest. After a few rustling moments, a heavy coat settled over him. It smelled like salt, sweat, leather and rum. He breathed it in and tried to focus on something other than the pain, or the chills, or the gnawing knowledge of what Doctor Howell would find when he arrived. 

* * *

He must have fallen asleep, because now he was awake and everything still hurt. 

The cramping had eased somewhat. The wind had picked up and he could feel his hair ruffling, but he was no longer cold under Flint's coat. He felt the complete sticky sweatiness of having been feverish, but his body was so full of conflicting signs that he couldn't tell if he was cold or warm or hot. 

He shifted his leg experimentally and bit his lip on a whimper when pain surged through him. Not entirely better, then. 

He realized he could hear voices and rustling from not far off, and they were coming closer. A lantern bobbed among several dark forms, slowly revealing the bodies of the men—and a woman in skirts—walking as a group. When they were within a few strides he recognized Howell, Flint, Joji and Madi. 

They surrounded him, moving in a brisk and businesslike manner. Howell eyed him as they situated themselves and the items they carried. 

"You look better," he said mildly. 

"Good. Then you don't need that." John nodded toward the blood-stained leather roll he carried. 

Howell set it down and knelt to lay a hand to John's forehead. "Still warm," he said after a moment, and Madi poured water from an ewer into a basin. 

John looked at Flint, standing with Joji behind him. Flint's arms were tightly crossed and he examined John carefully. 

"I feel much better. Just give me a blanket and be on your way." 

"Stuff it," Howell said, pulling bandages out of a bag. "I'll have a look at your leg and see what needs be done." 

John closed his eyes, not wanting to see for himself what Howell found, or watch his face while doing it. 

Howell was gentle as he pulled up John's pant leg, but the wave of hot pain still made John scrabble for a handhold. He found a fistful of Flint's coat and held on, breathing through the pain, trying to endure Howell's prodding. Madi rung water out of a cloth and handed it over, and Howell swabbed the end of the stump. The leg reacted like pouring lamp oil on a fire, a searing flare of pain that made John cry out before he ground his teeth together. 

"Well?" he asked through clenched jaws. Howell peered at him, brows creased. 

"I need better light. Dawn is in a few hours. If you can hold out until then…" 

John scraped out a laugh. "If you stop poking at the fucking thing, maybe." 

"Drink this." Flint had found a cup from somewhere. John lifted his head—christ, his back hurt—and let Flint pour into his mouth. Rum, a lot of it. At least he might get drunk for a while, if he could have no other relief. John drained the cup in a few gulps and handed it back. 

As he settled onto the mat, Madi held a hand to his forehead. Her huge eyes were fathomless pits in the low light. "Still feverish." She laid a cloth on his brow. John felt like complaining that the damn brow cloths were utterly pointless, but it did feel good on his hot skin. He closed his eyes. 

He dreaded seeing the next dawn, but this night seemed interminable, and day always made problems smaller. Would that he could get up and stroll down to the lake, maybe go for a cooling swim. He could practically feel the waters, closing over his head and enveloping him in the weightless embrace. 

* * *

It was fully light out when he awoke again, and he felt fuzzy and hot and confused. He looked around. 

Flint sat nearby, one arm looped around the leg he had drawn up, his gaze off in the distance. They were alone. 

He tried lifting his head, but it felt ten times heavier than normal. He lifted a hand to beckon to Flint and saw it flop uselessly on the mat. "Wha's…" 

Flint jerked to attention and moved closer. "Lie still now. Howell will be back soon." 

John eyed hm. He could barely keep his eyelids open, and he couldn't focus well. His eyes kept moving around despite his best effort to glare at Flint. "Drugg'd me." 

"Can you blame us?" Flint picked up that damn cloth and soaked it in the basin. John didn't have the energy to keep his eyes open. 

The cloth touched his lips and Flint squeezed fresh water out, allowing it to trickle into his mouth. He sucked it in reflexively, suddenly realizing he was parched. He opened his eyes as Flint took the cloth back and soaked it again. 

"Flin'…no more." He swallowed. "No laud'num." 

"Why not?" Flint swabbed his throat and the part of his chest that was exposed by his open shirt. The water felt wonderful. 

"Don'…" He gathered his strength. When had his eyes closed? He opened them. "Don' wanna be opium eater. Like in th' Wrecks." 

"That won't happen," Flint said. He wasn't looking at John's face, but soaked the cloth again and wiped John's hands and wrists. 

John puzzled over that until he couldn't feel the cloth any longer, and he slept. 

* * *

Cold. So cold. Where was Flint's coat? He reached for it, but his hands closed on empty space, then 

fingers 

holding his hand. He squeezed them, grateful for the anchoring grip. 

Flint sat behind his head, appearing upside down. John blinked at him. "C-c-cold." His teeth were chattering. 

"Your fever is worse," Flint said, his voice low. He reached over John and a weight slid up over John's chest, broad and smelling good. John grasped the collar with his free hand and clutched it to his throat. 

Flint was still holding his hand. 

Had Howell come and cut more away from him? John moved his leg and the pain reared up, blinding him, taking his breath. 

Flint squeezed his hand and laid the other on his forehead, palm spanning it from eyebrows to hairline. He felt so warm, so wonderfully warm. John shivered and pressed his head into Flint's hand. "Lie still. Howell will be here soon." 

"Not—" Fuck. Fuck. "Not again," he gasped. 

"John." Flint squeezed his hand in a grip that was almost painful. "He must. You'll die, otherwise. I won't let that happen." 

John closed his eyes and felt tears prickle behind them, felt his mouth twitching downwards. "No," he said, and even he could hear the tears in his voice. 

"Listen to me, you annoying, conniving son of a bitch." Flint was close, his breath on John's ear, the low thrum vibrating through his skull. "If you fucking die because you didn't follow doctor's orders and didn't take care of your leg and didn't tell anyone how sick you were getting, I'll follow you to Hell and give you a beating that will send you into the next level." 

John clutched the coat and shivered. 

* * *

"I have his shoulders. Take his leg. Madi, you take the—the other leg. Support it." 

Cold again. John opened his eyes. The coat was gone. That was Billy, moving to Flint's directions, going to his feet. He looked to his left. Madi was worming her small, strong hands under his arse and thigh. 

"One, two—" 

They lifted him in unison and set him on a litter. Madi held his thigh, and she arranged the pillow for the stump. His leg throbbed when it touched the pillow, but the pain felt distant, a threatening storm cloud on the horizon. 

The litter lifted. Above John's head, Flint looked severe and focused. 

They didn't carry him far. When he was set down, it felt like a table. Howell was there, his tools out, sleeves rolled up. 

"Drink this, John." There was a cup held before him. The sweet scent of rum drifted to him, but he knew. 

John turned his head and looked at Flint. Flint glanced at him before looking at Howell. "No laudanum. It's how he wants it." 

Howell hesitated, but set the cup down. "All right. Do you—" 

"I've got him." 

Flint closed both hands over his shoulders, low, fingers curling into his armpits like he was going to haul him off the table. John reached up and found Flint's forearms to hang onto. Without another word, Howell started. 

He hardly felt the first cut that broke the skin, but he felt the blade cut through the muscle of his thigh, a slick slide that made his stomach lurch like seasickness. The pain rolled over him like lightning and thunder, sharp at the fore, dull and throbbing in the wake. John realized he was holding his breath only when he gasped like a drowning man, sucking in air in great shuddering gulps when Howell stopped sawing. He felt a brush against his cheek and opened his eyes while Howell gave him a slight reprieve, switching tools. 

Flint moved. Lifting his head. He'd had it pressed to John's shoulder; it had been his hair that had brushed John's face. The light glinted off his earring and caught John's gaze. John blinked. 

"Hold him now," Howell said warningly, and started on the bone. 

John was scarcely aware of himself after that. He couldn't tell if he was screaming, but his throat hurt. He thought he'd had control of his grip but his hands scrabbled up Flint's arms, pulling on his shirtsleeves. 

Something touched his mouth. The cloth was shoved between his teeth. "Bite that," Flint said, and John sobbed into the gag as Howell finished the last sawing cuts. 

After that, his senses were utterly confused. He could feel tugging and pinching while Howell bent to his work. He smelled bitter herbs when Madi leaned in. Then Howell returned, white bandages flashing, and he felt dull scratching and pressure. 

Flint straightened and tugged on the cloth between his teeth, and John let it go from between his teeth. He heard his breath shuddering out in sobs, and tried to close his teeth over them. He had to tell his hands to release; his fingers ached. 

Madi murmured something he didn't hear. 

Flint said, "I have a spare set. I'll—" 

John opened his eyes to see him turn abruptly and walk away. He brushed past Howell, washing his tools in a basin. There was a bundle on the floor, wrapped in sail cloth. John turned his face to the ceiling. 

Madi appeared at his shoulder, leaning into his field of view. "You've—your bladder released," she said gently. "He is getting new clothes for you." 

John closed his eyes and felt hot prickling heat behind his eyelids. As if he wasn't humiliated enough. His body had found yet another way to betray him. 

Madi refreshed the cloth and wiped his face, saying nothing of the wetness trailing over his temples. 

* * *

John made no sound as Flint and Madi undressed him, cleaned him up, and worked the clean trousers up his leg. He tried to lift his hips with his weight on his remaining foot, but his muscles quivered and gave out. Still, the effort was enough for Flint to work the waistband under his ass and tug it up. The pain of Madi handling his leg was nothing to the surgery, but he breathed easier when she settled his leg on the pillow and patted his arm. He managed a weak smile as she walked away. 

Flint shook out a blanket and draped it over him. John steeled himself to seek out his gaze. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. 

Flint settled next to John's hip so he could face him directly. "You don't have to thank me." 

"Shut up. Thank you. You didn't—" He cleared his throat; it was raw. "It would have been worse if you hadn't. Been here." 

Flint inclined his head, then got to his feet and patted John's shoulder as he walked away. "Try to sleep." 

* * *

John could only drift for a while, exhausted but unable to rest. He could feel his body awake and active, tremors running through his limbs like he had just been through a severe battle. Every once in a while a wave seemed to surge from the stump, a wash of pain that completely swamped him before fading away to nearly nothing. After a few minutes of reprieve, it would begin again. 

Madi came to see him after an hour or so, and she brought rum. 

"No laudanum," she said when he eyed the cup, and smiled when he took it. 

* * *

The rum didn't do much to quell the pain, but it made him not care as much that it hurt. Still, it took days more before he could stand to look at what remained of him. 

Howell had taken a good eight inches more, leaving a stump well above where his knee had been. The one advantage of the first amputation site was the knee—he could kneel or crawl on it, as uncomfortable as it was, keeping the pressure off the shortened ends of the lower leg bones. Now he didn't even have that. 

Madi left him a bottle rather than continuing to fetch and carry, for she had so many other things to attend to. He tried to make it last. 

Howell came to check on him at some point. John interrupted his nattering and asked after the crew. "What is going on?" 

"Most have gone with Flint, I don't know where. The rest, and myself, are helping to restore the camp." Howell patted his shoulder as he rose. "Drink less, it's not helping you heal any faster. But we'll get you upright again in no time." 

John waited until he was gone, looking at the fresh white bandages around the stump. Then he leaned over his berth and retrieved the bottle, not bothering with the cup. 

* * *

He didn't know how many days it had been, but Flint was back. He loomed over John's table, the frown lines deep around his mouth. 

John squinted up at him. "Where were you?" He heard the slurring in his voice and tightened his jaw. 

"Had to refit, garner supplies." Flint dropped into the chair close at hand, the sprawl of his lean legs speaking to exhaustion. "Have you gotten off this table yet?" 

John eyed the crutch leaning against the verandah post nearest to him. "Some." Flint was watching him. John could feel the weight of his gaze. He swallowed and spoke to the rafters. "Why didn't you let me die?" 

"Did you want to?" 

John's throat clicked when he tried swallowing again. "It would have been easier," he said hoarsely. 

"Easier than what? Getting off this table?" Flint leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "It's been some time since you shied away from a challenge." 

A laugh popped out of John's throat. "Well, I'm no quartermaster now, either." 

"Why not?" 

John moved his leg meaningfully. It ached like a sonofabitch. "A ship is no place for a man with one leg." 

"You managed before. You used the lines strung around the ship, and the iron boot." 

"They were hardly of use when we sailed into that storm after leveling Charles Town." Flint gave him a questioning look and John elaborated, "I couldn't save Muldoon. In the hold, with the cannons on him. I was utterly useless." He didn't say that he had dreams of Muldoon grabbing him from beneath his hammock, of his ghost wearing the same stricken look on his white face under the water. "A quartermaster needs to be of more help to his men than that. You could vote in Billy." 

Flint stood, huffing impatience. "As you like. But Madi is likely going to want her table back." He walked to the stairs off the verandah, then paused. "I should not like to have to explain to the men why we are sailing back to Nassau without you." 

* * *

John's arms trembled; his standing leg trembled. He felt himself swaying, his balance gone, such as it was. He crutched to a pillar and leaned his hip against it, panting even after the minor exertion. 

It would be a long hard fight to get his stamina back. The sound of the crew active around him weighed heavily on his conscious; he had become so quickly a part of them, so determined to be a contributing shipmate. 

Now they worked without him, hauling in supplies, repairing the battle damage to the village, readying their own stores to return to Nassau. They had also tried to visit him in his convalescence, but he'd been adamant that he didn't want the men to see him in his state. They wondered how he fared, and whether he could and would rejoin them. 

As he had told Madi, he couldn't appear weak or vulnerable before the crew. But in isolating himself, he realized now, he was perhaps looking more like a coward or weakling than if he'd allowed their visitation. 

Marshaling every ounce of strength he had, he crutched out of the hut to the broad wrap-around porch. He stopped at the top of the stairs. The stair treads were narrow and rickety and uneven. He stood there, hands sweating, searching for courage. 

"Mister Silver," came a familiar voice behind him. 

John turned carefully. "Billy Bones." 

"Might I offer you an escort?" 

"Thank you, I don't require any assistance." John turned back, but the stairs looked no more reassuring than the moment prior. 

"Mister Silver," Billy said in a low voice. "It would look better than falling down a flight of steps." 

"I _cannot_ ," John hissed over his shoulder. 

"What looks better to the common people," Billy murmured, "a king in a carriage or a man hoofing it?" 

"You're going to carry me down these steps?" John gestured with a crutch and quickly put it back to use when he wobbled. 

"Not me. They are." 

John looked back and saw Billy make a gesture. Two of Madi's men came from the queen's hut nearby, strapping young lads who looked capable of carrying a man between them. One of them held a chair. 

"If you would allow…" Billy murmured. 

John looked between them and Billy and saw nothing but set resolve. He sighed and finally nodded. 

The men came up the stairs and flanked him while John rested the crutches against a support beam. John felt the gentle pressure of the chair behind his knee, and bent back to sit. 

They had him down the steps in seconds, Billy following with the crutches. As Madi's men carried him across the open square, John took a deep breath and looked around the camp, now that he was at an open vantage point. 

Billy strode quickly to keep up. "You can see the wall repair is complete," he said while gesturing, as though bringing a general to full understanding of a battlefield. "Weapons have been refitted and replenished in the stockpiles. The food stores have likely been replenished by now, or will be by end of day." 

"And our next course of action?" 

Billy looked at him. "That's for you and Captain Flint to decide, innit?" 

The strange little group finished crossing the square and mounted the steps to the meeting hut. A few men standing around scattered at their approach. 

He was hustled in to the meeting room and up to the round table. When the two men stepped away and went off, he turned to face Billy. 

"They need no more masters," he said urgently. "Tell them to stop this." 

"Tell Madi," Billy said with a shrug, and handed Silver his crutches. 

Teach and Rackham were across the table, looking over charts. They had watched this unfold with naked surprise on their faces, and Rackham smirked when John faced them. 

There was silence for a long moment before Rackham said, "Your majesty," and made a flamboyant bow deeply over one leg. 

"Fuck off," John said, and scooted his chair closer to the table. 

* * *

The pirate crews and Maroon tribe made great headway in restoring their island. Flint, Teach and Rackham took to the sea, patrolling the inlet and preying on cargo ships further out in the shipping lanes. They kept the pirating limited to reduce risk, but were able to capably resupply from New Providence and the other surrounding islands. 

Once their supply lines were established, John felt more confident about the camp's ability to defend itself, even when the pirate crews were away hunting. He was closely involved with the stock of munitions and arms. He also took charge of the warehouses, gathered reports on the various food crops and goods being grown on the island, and established distribution and rationing programs. 

Teach had word from informants in Nassau Town and described the possibilities for the Navy to return. They were marshaling forces, but they'd had a number of setbacks. An extended, severe storm season and another outbreak of plague had set back Governor Rogers's attempts to quell the pirate resistance, and there were reports that the citizenry in Nassau were ill at ease after the execution of Charles Vane. 

The tasks John had set for himself, or that he was automatically assumed to be doing, required a great deal of walking and talking. Soon after he'd come out of his fevered state John had asked about having the iron leg modified, but the island had no smithy. Even though there were several experienced smiths among the pirate crews, they had no raw iron, fuel, anvil or tools. That meant the boot could not be modified or created anew. As a result, John used the crutches as much as he could, usually for ten or so hours a day until he was too exhausted to continue. After that he was forced to let people bear him around in that ridiculous chair. He usually tried to conserve his strength until he could see himself to bed. 

He found that he hardly ever had time to socialize with the rest of the crew. He and Flint had spoken little since John's recovery began, particularly as Flint spent days or even weeks at a time out at sea. But they had a monthly round table discussion among all the captains and leaders, and Flint had come onto the island late the night before. John spotted him over a fire with a cup of tea in hand when he ventured out to find a spot of breakfast, and they exchanged nods. 

* * *

"Now that the recovery process is nearing completion," Teach said to the meeting room at large, "we should restore the armaments at the beach and double the lookout shifts. Rackham and Bonny can take the _Orion_ for an additional patrol ship." 

After murmurs of agreement, Madi stood. "If there is no other business?" She looked around the table at each captain's face, then rapped her knuckles on the table to signal the end of the meeting. 

"Until next month," Flint murmured, just loud enough for John to hear at his side. The other captains filed out, Madi leading them all. 

John pushed himself to his foot and slipped a crutch under his left arm, turning nimbly on its tip. He saw Flint watching him, but Flint said nothing. After a moment he turned and went the way of the other captains. 

John shook his head and headed out. Flint was being stranger than usual. 

He made his way down to the lake, wanting to make sure enough food would be prepared with all the crews back on the island. During other recent gatherings, food portions had gotten rather skint by the end of the line, and men had complained. 

One of the captains had pirated several barrels of ships' provisions, so there were tubs of salt pork already soaking. John chatted with the cook and her staff for a few minutes, chewing on a piece of fried plantain, then took a guava fruit with him as he went on. 

"Mister Silver, sir," he heard in the musical accent of one of the Maroons. He turned, pausing on his crutches until the man had caught up with him. 

"I'm sorry, remind me of your name," he said apologetically. There were so many islanders. 

"Koba, sir. I am a fisherman," he added as a reminder. 

"Yes, Koba." John put on his warm and friendly voice. "What can I do for you?" 

"I need to show you something on the dock." Koba didn't look pleased to be carrying out this task. John sighed, wondering what the bad news might be, and told him to lead on. 

Koba had discovered some kind of disease with the lake fish, and much of the day's catch had to be thrown to the pigs. John prayed that the disease wasn't catching. He asked if Koba and his crews might be able to find fish in the river. Koba hedged when he said they could, then explained that it was the wrong season for the river fish. That run would not return for some weeks yet. 

John nodded and thought about salt pork. They'd have to find more stores of it from the shipping raids, put more aside for the islanders to subsist on until the fish population restored. 

* * *

His day progressed like so, a hundred little things that required his attention and, usually, his presence at some spot clear across the camp. Some days he wondered if he'd walked a dozen miles on his crutches. 

Being that they were holding a communal meal for multiple groups that evening, his day seemed especially long. Still, he was able to slip away just as the meal started. His palms were totally numb on the handles of his crutches as he stumped back to his sleeping hut. Everything seemed to hurt, or had been hurting so long he wasn't sure what sensation he was feeling. 

He wanted a drink and a long night's sleep. The last thing he wanted was to have to talk to another person. 

Yet as he was lighting a candle to take to his cot, he saw a lantern coming up the steps. Even before he saw the familiar profile, he knew who it was. He sat heavily at the table in the front room, nudging aside the candlestick holder. 

Flint came in and gave him a long, studious look before setting the lantern down and pulling a second chair over. He sat without waiting for invitation. "Why aren't you out there?" 

John rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm tired. I was about to go to sleep." 

Flint crossed his arms. "You need to eat, to keep your strength up," he said carefully. 

"After I sleep. It's been a long day." He had no patience for niceties. John got his crutches and made his way into the next room, carefully lowering himself to his cot. Flint followed, bringing the lantern. 

After swinging his whole leg into the bed, John carefully lifted the stump and tried to find a comfortable position. All the while, Flint watched him, standing at the door with the lantern. 

"Am I doing this right?" John said bitingly, trying to break the thick silence. 

Flint finally came closer and sat next to John, taking the last few inches of space next to his hip. He reached out suddenly toward John's face, making him flinch. Flint paused, then turned his hand and pressed the back to John's forehead. 

"You're not particularly feverish," he said after a moment. "I'll have someone come check on you." 

"Why are you doing all this?" John said, glaring. "I can't possibly be worth all this effort of following me around, looking after me…Certainly not to you." 

"You've never underestimated yourself before; don't start now. The crew values you too highly. Replacing you would be a…challenge." 

"Perhaps at first, but—" 

"For fuck's sake, stop talking." Flint stood suddenly and went to the door, not turning as he added "I'll be back shortly," and left. 

* * *

John closed his eyes for a few minutes, only stirring when he heard someone in the room. It was Madi's medicine woman, lighting a few candles around the small room. She then reached for his empty pant leg with brisk efficiency. John shifted to give her better access, then lay back and tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensations. 

Flint came back while she was still working, and when John looked to his face, he saw Flint staring at his leg. 

"You've seen it before," John said, glancing between his leg and Flint's face. 

Flint stirred and glanced at him, then at the woman. "How is it?" he asked her. 

She gave him an exasperated look and tied off the bandage. "Rest. Strength." 

"A familiar refrain," John said as she rose, and worked his pant leg down from his hip. 

When she'd gone, Flint said, "You seem more yourself." 

"And you're not," John said challengingly. Flint's eyes narrowed. "Stop hovering. And get me a fucking bottle if you insist on bringing me something." 

Flint was silent for a long moment. John caught his breath, wondering if he'd pushed in some wrong way. 

Finally Flint sat back in the spot he'd had a few minutes prior, twisted to face John, pressed hip to hip on the little cot. He clasped his hands and studied them as he spoke. 

"The crew was deeply moved by your sacrifice for them. That you went through tremendous pain and personal cost to spare them from impressment, possibly even death. I never expressed it, but I feel…similarly. You did a considerable thing for them, and it has brought their loyalty and dedication to new heights. 

"Now your determination to appear totally without weakness or deficiency put you at grave personal risk, again, but this time I believe it was a foolish risk. Nevertheless— _nevertheless_ ," he said forcefully as John started to cut in. "It amounted in further sacrifice and an energizing of the crew's spirits." 

He glanced at John and held his gaze. 

"And me, as well." 

John lay totally still, trying to swallow as his mouth had gone dry. 

"I have incurred a debt, and that I rarely do," Flint said, his voice rough as granite. "And I cannot fathom the possibilities of repaying it." 

He lifted a hand and laid it on John's chest, fingers tapping once. "I do not wish to become further indebted by more sacrifices from you, particularly as I cannot repay a dead man." 

John felt the weight of his hand like an anvil. He held Flint's gaze, clear and direct and unflinching. 

"I will get you a cup," Flint said. "And we shall have a meal together." 

When John realized he was waiting for a reply, he nodded jerkily. Flint offered a small smile—a curious thing on that weathered, harsh face—and strode quickly from the room. 

* * *

He returned with a pair of mess plates, piled with roasted pork and guava cheese and fried plantains, a pair of cups pinched between a few fingers, and a bottle under one arm. John looked pointedly at the bottle and Flint flashed a wolfish grin. "The rest is for me." 

John sat up on the cot while Flint brought a chair close, and they started eating in companionable silence. John reached over to the makeshift toilet stand next to the bed, retrieving the ewer there and pouring some water out for them both. 

They finished the meal and Flint poured out two cups of rum, sloshing it close to the rim. Their fingers brushed as Flint handed the cup over. 

John took a sip and looked at Flint. "This isn't rum." 

"It's Irish whiskey," Flint said, slouching in his chair. "I got it with the last haul, kept a bottle aside for myself." While John wanted to ask more about the latest cruise, as always, Flint steered the conversation according to his desires. "I heard the reports today, but—how are things here, truly?" 

John sipped his whiskey. "The men are getting restless," he said honestly. "And I won't be much good to them soon." 

"Why not?" Flint seemed to take offense at the mere suggestion. 

John drank again and gestured with his cup. "Quartermasters are caretakers. I haven't been able to take care of them for some time. They're itching for a chance to get back at the British, they're dissatisfied with the furtive subsistence pirating, they want to get a claim in on the Urca gold….and a cripple deigns to stand in their way of getting what they want? They'll stop seeing me as their provider, their protector, and start seeing me as a hindrance in fairly short order." 

"You underestimate them. Besides, they'll see a fight soon enough, I wager." Flint poured out fresh servings of whiskey. 

John wondered what had happened to Flint’s stern oversight of his drink intake, but sipped his drink anyway. The whiskey made his lips tingle and his mouth go hot, and he wasn't about to complain at the extra ration. 

After some more conversation he realized the whiskey had made him loose, his head feeling unbalanced, laughter slipping out of his mouth without him realizing it. Flint grinned at him more often, seemingly just as affected, and neither minding it. 

Finally, John put his cup on the floor and slid down his cot to lay his head on the pillow, trying to get more comfortable. Flint watched him squirm for a moment before saying, "You're stiff, eh?" 

John blinked at him. Flint snorted and continued, "Muscles. Stiffness, from the leg?" 

"Oh. Yeah." 

Flint waved a hand at him. "Roll over, I can help." 

John acquiesced, wincing as he tried to find a comfortable way to lie on his front without his back aching. After a moment he felt Flint's hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm going to see if I can loosen the muscles that are troubling you by massaging them," Flint said in a low voice. "Do you permit me?" 

John turned his head on the pillow so he could see Flint in his peripheral vision and nodded. He closed his eyes as Flint moved behind him, and felt the cot shift when Flint sat on its edge by his hip. 

His hands started low on his back, just above the waistband of his trousers. John winced at the slightest pressure, feeling as though he had a bad burn—the muscles were tight and angry and resisted Flint's touch. But Flint rubbed slowly, gently, and gradually the discomfort eased and he started to feel better. 

His hands moved up higher over his shirt, following the lines of muscle on either side of his spine, branching out toward his ribs. John jerked when a bit too much pressure made the muscles jump in protest. Flint made an apologetic sound and gentled his touch, and the tension eased further. 

John's concentration shifted from the discomfort to the relief, putting his focus into the spots of his body Flint was touching. He'd had no idea so many muscles were so aggravated, but as Flint moved his hands around, the connections became obvious. His hips had been off-kilter from standing on one leg, and the connecting tissues between his back and hips had become strained like old sailcloth. After his hip had stiffened, he had started walking with his spine twisted sideways, and his elbows and upper arms were sore from bracing his weight on the grips. 

"Roll over," Flint said, and John realized he'd been floating in an ocean of sensation, no conscious thoughts moving through his mind, only feeling. His mouth was hanging open. He closed it and worked saliva back onto his parched tongue. When he felt more presentable he wriggled onto his back. 

Flint didn't look at his face, so John closed his eyes. Meeting gazes felt too intimate, but somehow it felt fine for Flint to have his hands on John's body. Just as long as they weren't looking at each other. 

Flint started from his shoulders, squeezing the outer most curves, then pressing just inside, below the collarbones. The top of his chest felt tight and sore; likely from being hunched over on the crutches. Then Flint moved back to his arms, down the biceps to the forearms. Nerves tingled in his fingertips as Flint rubbed the swell of muscle at his elbows. 

Then Flint stopped and lifted his hands, and John opened his eyes. "Is that—" 

"Your legs likely hurt," Flint interrupted. "The front of your hips. If you'll allow…" 

John nodded and closed his eyes again. Flint shifted on the cot. 

He felt a palm on one hipbone and slight pressure, like Flint was testing the spring or resistance. John couldn't feel his body shift, so he had no idea what Flint was feeling for. 

Another palm; the same pressure on the other hipbone. Flint hummed. 

Fingers stole up his pelvis and just inside the bone curve, testing with slight pressure. Then Flint pressed firmly, fingertips a pinpoint dart, and John felt the painful knot that Flint had sensed. He smothered a whimper and breathed through his nose. 

Flint shifted the pressure higher and around his side and that hot bright discomfort flared beneath his touch. John held still and breathed through it, imagining his back unwinding, his hips leveling, the knots of muscle easing… 

Flint stopped and lifted off, only for the fingertips to return just above the kneecap, two fingers pressing into the ball of muscle. A flare of pain and his leg jerked. John stifled a cry. 

"It's as I thought," Flint murmured, and pressed down as he shifted the touch higher, like squeezing water out of a sodden sail. "This whole part…" He followed the band of tension up and the discomfort increased, John's back arching as he fought against the urge to move, to kick Flint off. It was a solid iron bar running down his leg and it didn't like being touched, but he couldn't tell if it felt worse to banish it or ignore it. The more Flint touched it, the worse it felt. 

"Breathe through it," Flint said urgently. "Five more seconds. Five…four…" John followed the count mentally, breath rushing out of his mouth through pursed lips, the discomfort turning to outright pain. It felt overwhelming, like Flint was unmaking him, like his fingers were piercing John's skin and tearing the muscle apart like cooked pork. 

"…one," Flint said, and his hands lifted. John gasped for breath. He relaxed his back. His entire thigh tingled with a rush of blood through the muscles. 

Flint's palm returned to his hipbones, and John realized he could feel his pelvis shift under the slight pressure. The joints moved, the pain in his back gone. 

"Better?" Flint asked, and John opened his eyes. 

"I…I think so," he said, and lifted up onto his elbows. Flint stood and held out a hand. 

"Let's try adding gravity." 

John took the offered hand, gripping thumbs so he could haul himself to one foot. His thigh sang with sensation, but it was good. It moved. His hips moved. His back moved. He'd had no idea at how stiff he'd been, how much his body had locked itself into an immovable statue of pain. Flint looked at him with satisfaction, no doubt reading the wonder and relief on John's face. 

"I want a fucking drink after that," John breathed, and lowered himself to the cot again. He retrieved his cup and Flint got the bottle to refill it. 

"Where did you learn all that?" John asked as Flint poured. Flint shrugged. 

"Looked at some medical texts, whenever we've taken a prize with a surgeon attached. I've tried things out on myself, seen what worked. Sometimes tried it out on others." 

"Others?" 

"Yes…you know, things are supposed to work smoothly. Our parts, they seize up, like rusty gears. Got to knock ‘em loose." 

John was still stuck on the mental image of Flint massaging someone. "Who else have you done this with?" 

But as soon as he said it, he remembered Flint's story, the history he'd shared of his lover, Thomas. He blushed. 

Flint just shrugged and drank his dram of whiskey in one swallow. "Shipmates." 

"Mates?" John said meaningfully. Flint gave him a sideways look and grinned, and John laughed. 

"I will admit that Thomas showed me a few things," Flint said, a smile twisting his lips. "But my informal education has progressed since that time." 

"Well, it works," John said, smiling back. He couldn't help it; the whiskey had put him at ease, the rubdown had relaxed him, and Flint's face transformed wonderfully when he smiled—truly smiled, happily. 

"Anything else bothering you?" 

It was so out of character, this polite solicitude, but John wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Sometimes I feel this thing, this—knot, I guess—in my calf." He pointed to the head of the muscle, behind and just below the knee joint. 

"Mmm." Flint probed the area and found a knot the size of a baby's fist. John's leg jerked in his grasp and he raised an eyebrow. "That?" 

"Yeah," John said with a little laugh. 

Without asking for permission again, Flint pushed up the leg of John's trousers. His hands were so, so warm, John wanted to sigh when he felt the touch of those strong fingers again. They tickled the back of his knee, teasingly brushing over the sensitive crease before finding the muscle. 

"This may be intense," Flint said warningly just before he pressed down. 

It wasn't as bad as the thigh, but the sensation was significant. John tried to hold still while Flint worked his fingertips in small circles, pushing on the knot, trying to unwind it by steady attention. 

John looked from his leg to Flint's face and found Flint watching him. He blinked but couldn't look away. Was Flint watching his face for some reaction? Trying to wordlessly communicate something? Or was he staring off into space as his hands worked, and John happened to be on the other end of the gaze? 

Flint's gaze shifted down slightly and John let out a breath. "I think it's better," Flint said. He slid his fingertips in lines down John's calf like he was feeling for burrs in a horse's coat. "I bet—" He moved around to the front of his leg at the ankle and pressed firmly. John's foot kicked reflexively and he tried to smother more twitches as Flint continued. His fingertips followed a line of muscle on his shin, exquisitely sensitive, shooting off sparks of sensation as he went. He reached the knee and lifted off, and John found himself panting. 

"That should do the trick," Flint said. John nodded. 

He realized just then that he was hard, a bulge showing clearly in his trousers. He looked down at himself with surprise and scrambled to sit up, trying to hide it. It would look so obvious if he put the pillow in his lap, but— 

"That happens," Flint said evenly. "It's natural." 

"I'm—I wouldn't—" 

Flint watched him patiently as he reached for his cup and the bottle, pouring out another dram to knock back. 

"I didn't mean to," John got out, and squeezed his eyes shut briefly in embarrassment. 

"Of course not. You prefer women." Flint poured another serving for himself and lifted the bottle as a question. John nodded and Flint refilled his cup. 

"Well, I mean, I…" Well shit, now he was getting into some deep water. He bit his lip. Damn the whiskey. 

Flint eyed him and sipped from his cup, making it last this time. "You've had shipmates before?" 

"Yes." Almost everyone did. 

"And you enjoyed it perhaps more than you thought you should?" 

John nodded, his face flaming. He drank to try to hide the blush. 

Flint said nothing for a long moment, and the only sound was the sputter of a candle and the night calls outside the hut. 

At last Flint took another sip and said, "I have often wondered how it is that every man loves himself more than all the rest of men, but yet sets less value on his own opinion of himself than on the opinion of others." 

John blinked. That sounded like he was quoting something. Flint gave him a sideways look and a small smile, then continued. 

"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live." 

"What is that?" John breathed. 

Flint looked into his cup and drained it. "Meditations. Marcus Aurelius." 

"Who's that?" 

"Some old Roman philosopher. And an emperor." Flint set the cup down on the table and wedged the cork in the bottle. 

"He sounds like a smart man." 

Flint nodded and John turned the phrases over in his mind. He was bewildered, conflicted. Here was an intelligent man, as sensitive as he was cunning and ruthless. He could be breathtakingly brutal and considerately gentle in the space of a few days. While John was fairly confident he would be the last person to draw Flint's ire, the events in Charles Town had changed Flint. John worried over the possibility that Flint was becoming more of a loose cannon than a deadly dagger strike. 

"Thomas introduced me to the text," Flint said softly, pulling John from his thoughts. "That book is the most beloved thing of mine. It was for Miranda as well." 

"I should like to read it," John said quietly. Flint looked at him with eyebrows raised, but nodded when he saw that John was serious. He brushed his hands together and shifted as if getting ready to rise. 

John found that he didn't want Flint to leave. When Flint shifted he reached out and touched his wrist. 

Flint froze like John had cast a spell on him. They watched each other carefully as John edged closer, bringing his hips right next to Flint's. 

Flint inclined his head as John leaned in, and John breathed a shaky sigh of excitement just before their lips touched. 

John trembled as Flint's mouth moved softly against his. He held as still as he was able, only moving his mouth to keep the soft kisses connected, but he was angled somewhat awkwardly on the cot. But he didn't want to move. He wanted to keep kissing Flint, to taste the whiskey on his breath and feel the brush of his moustache on his lips. 

He couldn't tell if Flint sensed the precariousness of his position or moved with his own selfish desires, but either way he pushed John flat on the cot and leaned over him, one warm hand resting on John's ribs. When he kissed John it was slightly fiercer, sucking on his lower lip and sighing when John opened his mouth. Their tongues met hesitantly, then Flint deepened the kiss enthusiastically. John met him wholeheartedly. 

After a frenzied round of kisses Flint had paused to catch his breath and John couldn't help the words bubbling up. "I haven't had a—it's been a long time." 

"Since what? This?" Flint eased back just enough to drag his hand down John's body, brushing against his groin. 

John sighed and shifted his hips to meet the touch, but it was teasing. He was fully hard, rock hard, and he wanted to rut against something. "Yeah—yes. I haven't gotten it up since…" He couldn't think. 

"Since before you lost your leg?" Flint cupped him, giving him his palm to rock into, and John moaned. 

"Yes." And with the second amputation, it had added still more time to his dry spell. 

"Your entire body needed to recover." Flint squeezed just slightly. John moaned tremulously again. "You seem well now." 

John lifted up, seeking Flint's mouth. Flint obliged him and pushed him back onto the cot with the force of his kiss, his hand still pressing, rocking the heel down to press against John's balls and offer teasing pressure. 

John wanted more than a hand job. He wanted more than to come in his pants and have to clean up the mess after, washing out the fabric and wiping up the sticky emissions from all over his thighs. Fuck that. 

He grabbed Flint's wrist and pulled his mouth away to speak. "Not too fast." 

Flint huffed a sigh and a thought occurred to John. "This isn't charity, is it?" He remembered their earlier conversation about John's sacrifice. "All that talk about indebtedness." He squinted at Flint. "Don't fucking repay me like this." 

Flint eased his hand free, bracing it on the cot next to John's shoulder and giving them both space. "I have desires as much as you do." 

"Do you now," John said. 

"Have I desired you prior to now?" Flint said testily. "Not specifically. But I will tell you now, you're the first man I've wanted to take to a bed in years. Not just an arse to fuck over a desk, but a person. Someone I've wanted to pleasure, as much as be pleased by." 

John searched his face but saw no hint of reserve, no hesitation. Flint watched him calmly, making no demands. 

After a minute John was as satisfied as he could be in taking Flint at his word. He cupped the back of Flint's neck and brought him into a kiss, shivering when Flint slid his tongue between his lips. They kissed for another long while, losing track of time. 

Flint broke off with a sigh and pressed kisses down John's jaw and throat. John tipped his head back and groaned softly when he felt a press of teeth. Flint nipped down to his collarbone and put his teeth around the arch, a testing bite as if showing John that his appetite was roused. 

"Here…" John whispered, and tugged the hem of his shirt out of his pants. Flint leaned back to help him, stripping the shirt over John's head before going right back to the same spot. He nibbled a trail down John's chest and licked a circle around one nipple, making a bolt of sensation shoot down to John's groin. He cupped Flint's neck and rubbed the soft bristle of hair with a thumb, encouraging him to keep going. 

Flint didn't have the room to go much further south, so he veered off to the other side of John's chest and sucked that nipple into his mouth. He was exquisitely sensitive and John arched with a gasp, frantically trying to grind his cock against something, a leg or hip or anything. Flint dug his fingers into John's side, groaning softly to himself as he continued the exquisite torture. He seemed to be gaining his own pleasure and satisfaction purely by giving it, John realized with a shock. 

"Fuck—Flint, please—" John's hands scrambled over his head, finding no purchase with his short hair. Just as he was about to pull on an ear, Flint relented. 

He sat up and stripped off his shirt, then resettled, stretched out on top of him. "Is this all right?" 

John lifted his stump to keep it from getting pinned and pressed his thigh to Flint's hip. "It's fine like this." The action rolled his hips slightly against Flint's, and he grinned at the low exhale that passed over him. "Are you all right, might be the better question." 

Flint answered by taking John's mouth in a deep kiss, pulling John's lip between his own and sucking hard until John writhed against him. Flint slipped a hand into his hair and tugged, catching John's delighted gasp with his mouth. He kept moving against John, grinding their hips together, making room for his free hand to wander over John's body. 

John had his head tipped back—pulled back, with Flint's fist in his hair—and was enjoying the light prickle of little bites down his chest when he felt a touch on his left thigh. His bad leg. 

Flint ran his fingers down the outside of the leg, slowing when he encountered the bandages under the trousers. John held his breath. 

The touch traced the edge of the bandages, then brushed over them, the lightest pressure exciting the sensitized skin beneath. Flint swirled his fingertips in randomly patterned strokes, not going over the edge to the face of the stump where the skin was too abused to be touched comfortably, but staying to the top and sides. John felt like his hair was standing on end. He realized his cock was still as hard as ever. The fingers skated over to the inside of his thigh and up toward his groin. "Flint—" he gasped, bucking his hips. 

"James," Flint corrected him, still speaking into his chest. He lifted his head with a satisfied smirk. "Can I continue?" 

"Y-Yes," John whispered, panting lightly. He lay sprawled as Flint crawled back onto his heels and reached for the buttons of John's trousers. 

Flint unfastened them and pulled the fly open to free his cock, then opened his own breeches. He braced himself over John again and lowered his hips to John's, rubbing the head of his cock up John's shaft. A sigh shuddered out from John's lips at the light, teasing touch and he reached up to Flint's hips, running his hands over the curves of muscle. He pushed his hands into the loosened breeches and found the cleft of his arse. He skimmed a fingertip down alongside, tracing it shallowly as far as he could before the folds of cloth inhibited him. Flint closed his eyes and shuddered, his entire upper body trembling. 

He looked so much more vulnerable with his clothes off, his pale skin covered with the fascinating pattern of freckles, his rosy nipples looking like two tender berries, with a wide variety of scars scattered among it all. His cock was flushed a dark red, nearly matching the thatch of auburn hair at its base. 

Then he opened his eyes and pulled his lips back in an ecstatic grimace, showing his clenched teeth. It was a fierce expression, one that he usually only wore in battle. John felt a thrill chase down his spine and rocked his hips up. Flint pushed down to meet him, biting his own lip, grunting in pleasure as they ground together. 

"Yes, like that," John whispered, and Flint continued thrusting his hips against John's. The movement sent their cocks sliding together, their shafts nestled side by side. John panted and dug his fingers into Flint's arse, holding on as he started thrusting harder, faster, his desperation rising. 

"John," Flint groaned, and dropped to his elbows, his hips never losing pace. John wrapped his good leg around his pumping hips and adjusted his grip, his fingertips sliding on the sweat-slicked skin of Flint's back. 

"Yes—" 

Flint was falling apart, that carefully managed impenetrability crumbling away. He pressed his face into John's throat. John felt the edge of his teeth, a sob of breath. 

Suddenly a hand was back in his hair, a fist tightening its grip, jerking his head back with a short tug. John gasped as his orgasm welled up, a wave swamping him, tumbling him into blissful oblivion. 

Dimly he felt Flint groan into his throat, his thrusts going jerky and uneven, then a spreading warmth between them. He wrapped his arms around Flint's shoulders, pulling him down to lay completely over him, both of them relaxing into boneless satisfaction. 

* * *

After a while Flint sighed and pushed himself up just enough to slide to John's hip, settling with their legs entwined. "That was all right?" 

John found his shirt and balled it up to wipe the mess off his belly, then dropped it to the floor under the cot and stretched. "Mm-hmm." 

Flint dropped a hand on his stomach and wiped at a smear of fluid that John had missed. "Have you done it before?" 

John turned his head, lifting a hand to Flint's jaw. He rubbed his thumb over his bearded jaw and lower lip, watching Flint's mouth part under the touch. 

"Just hands and mouths, with shipmates. Not kissing." 

Flint cocked an eyebrow and turned his head enough to take the tip of John's thumb between his teeth and bite gently. John snorted but didn't have the energy to react further. He dropped his hand to his pillow and closed his eyes. 

"I should get back," Flint said. John cracked an eyelid to see him climb off the cot. "You'll need a bigger bed if we do this again." 

"I'll get on that," John said sleepily. 

Flint finished wiping himself clean with the edge of his shirt and pulled it on, giving John a quizzical look as his head came through the opening. "You want to?" 

John twitched a blanket over himself. "Do you?" 

Flint snorted and sat on a chair to pull on his boots. John thought that was the end of the conversation until Flint leaned over him and pulled him into a kiss. 

"I told you: you're the one person in my crew that I have any interest in." 

John repressed a shiver at Flint's words and steady gaze. He nodded, touching the back of Flint's hand briefly before it slipped away. 

Flint straightened and gathered the mess kits and cups. John noted he was leaving the bottle. "Get some rest, and take a large breakfast," he said as he paused at the door. "We'll be making our strike on Nassau soon." 

"Aye aye," John said with a smile. Flint tossed him a grin and left, and John settled back on his pillow. 

* * *

When John opened his eyes the next morning, it was fully light out, and he'd had the best sleep since losing his leg. 

Someone had been by his little hut—a covered breakfast plate sat on the table, boiled eggs and fried plantains and hard tack under the lid, and a bucket of fresh water was on the floor. After eating his breakfast, he carefully used one crutch to cross between the rooms with the empty basin in his free hand, filled it with water and sat down on a chair to wash. He took his time, and when he was finished he felt as clean as a well-tended child. It would be a shame to put on the same grimy clothes he'd worn for months, so he toweled dry and inspected the contents of the hut for any clean clothes. 

In an effort to support his recuperation, Madi and her people regularly came by with offerings. Most of the time he gave them no mind, but now he found a knapsack and trunk. The trunk had some clothes, and old pair of Navy uniform breeches and a couple yellowed shirts. They were clean despite the discoloring, so he pulled one on as well as the breeches. 

He put his dirty clothes in the knapsack and went out, making his way to the communal washing fountain. There were usually laundresses around there; he could pay one to launder his clothes. 

It was shady at the well, with its large Spanish-style stone-walled pool. He found a girl packing away her washboard and bucket, and negotiated a rate of payment. She wasn't thrilled at being handed more laundry to do after finishing a sizable amount already, judging from the full baskets of wet things bound for the drying racks. But she accepted the coin he offered and inspected the clothes. 

"Soak," she pronounced, and took the knapsack and all, piling it on top of her own laundry. He bit his cheek to keep back a smile as he watched her haul away the basket. 

He was about to depart when a conversation caught his ear. The sailors were behind him, refreshing themselves at the fountain, and evidently were catching up after being apart on different ships. Recognizing the opportunity to gather information, John casually sat down and put his back to the men, pretending to be absorbed with something else. Both men had broad Cockney accents, likely former Navy men. 

"I ‘eard your captain really got into it this time, eh?" 

"Oh mate, let me tell you. ‘E outdid himself, he did." 

John stilled and held his breath, staring ahead as though lost in thought. If this was about Flint, he badly wanted to hear it. 

"So Nicholas, ‘e was singin' ‘Mad Tom of Bedlam.' You know the tune. Is the one starts out ‘To see Mad Tom of Bedlam, ten thousand miles I traveled.'" 

"Right, I know it. So he's just singin' it?" 

"Just that. ‘e's most of the way frough the fird verse when himself comes tearin' in like a fuckin' bull of Pamploma." 

"Why? ‘Cause of the song?" 

"Had to be, right? So ‘e whips out a pistol and beats the butt end across Nicholas's face so hard he knocks ‘im straight out, faster than you can say King George." 

"Fuckin' Christ." 

"Right? An' Nicholas ain't dropped to the floor mor'n five seconds when himself bellows ‘There will be no fucking singing of that fucking song.' An' he goes inna the great cabin an' doesn' come out until the first dog watch the next day." 

"'e's a crazy fucking bastard." 

"Too right. You know what I fink…" 

"Yeah?" 

"I fink he's as off his rocker as them poor sods what's left in Bedlam. I fink ‘e escaped from there, an' the mere mention of the word turns ‘im into a ravin' maniac." 

"You might be right, Duncan." 

"You just watch yourself, mate. You watch out for that crazy bastard. Bein' a pirate's one fing, but beating your own shipmate for the song e's singin' is somefin else. Don't know that I trust a captain who can't tell friend from foe." 

"Yeah, well, ain't many others to follow ‘round ‘ere. Vane gone and Teach partnered up wif Flint." 

"That is the Lord's truth. I'm ‘alf a mind to make my way up t' Boston or east an' find a merchant crew. Could do wif a bit less excitement these days." 

"Well, if we're doin' it, I want a good fuck in ‘fore we go. We got somewhere nice an' private?" 

"There's the lake; lots of bushes an' meadows roun' there." 

"Lead on, me matey." 

John waited until he heard their footsteps fade away, then stood and started crutching back to his sleeping hut. 

He found people in his hut when he entered. Some of his own crew emerged from his sleeping room, looking satisfied with themselves. 

"Sir," one said, raising a knuckle to his brow out of habit. 

"What's this?" he said carefully, a smooth purr designed not to alarm. 

"A delivery," said another voice, and Flint came out of the room after the men. They nodded to him deferentially and departed, leaving Flint and Silver alone. 

Flint continued, "I mentioned a larger bed. It's a bit rough for now, we'll have to get a better mattress, but…" He gestured and John saw a wide, wood-framed raised platform had taken the place of his little cot. It had some blankets and pillows on it, and a thin cushion with John's blanket bundled on top. 

"Good god. That's a little much, isn't it?" Silver looked between it and Flint's gaze. 

"I insist on sleeping on real beds when I'm on land," Flint said evenly. He closed the distance between them with a step, and John startled slightly when Flint leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "And I intend on making a great deal of use of it." 

He patted John on the back and walked away, his hand trailing around his hip. John watched him go and sat at his table to consider. 

The overheard conversation gave him considerable cause for concern. He'd thought that in battling the British, Flint had overcome much of the dangerous areas of grief and rage that he'd wallowed in. But to lose his composure over— 

John reexamined the conversation in his mind. "Mad Tom of Bedlam" was the song. He didn't know it personally, but the subject of the song was clear from the title. Whether Flint knew the song or not, it would surely have brought to mind his lost lover Thomas. 

Yet again John was reminded that all of the people close to Flint, even his most intimate lovers, had met disastrous fates. And here John was with a bed delivered by Flint, for their mutual enjoyment. 

There was no way to refuse the gift, no way to disentangle himself from Flint's life without rousing suspicion. And in fact, so far there was little reason to do so. A beating wasn't enough to make John flee. He was too involved here, with Flint, with Madi and the queen and the tribe of Maroons. But as with the other warning signs that Flint had exhibited, it was another reason to exercise caution. 

If one were to keep guard against Captain Flint, perhaps the best vantage point would be from his bed.


End file.
